The dining room was restless, as Indians aren’t much for lengthy, seated meals. I took advantage of the sudden commotion to slip downstairs, the location of the secret basement bathroom. I maneuvered my way past Aunty Roma’s prize-winning collection of clutter, a distinction earned from her steadfast refusal to discard anything, ever. Why throw away used wrapping paper when it can sit in your basement for decades?

I heard murmurings and peered around the corner—and gasped! Sitting Indian-style, in between a life-size Pink Panther stuffed animal and a dilapidated Sit’n Spin, were Sanjay and Ludmila.

“What the fuck!” I screamed.

Sanjay looked up, frozen with terror. “It’s . . . it’s not what you think!” he blurted, grease dribbling from his mouth. I didn’t know what to think. In one hand, he was clutching a half-eaten turkey leg; with the other, he was pulling on the wishbone. Ludmila, his competitor, was rubbing Sanjay’s knee with her free hand.

“You’re eating turkey?” I asked, incredulous.

“Sheila, it’s, it’s—”

“It’s bullshit!” I yelled. “You . . . you closeted meat-eating hypocrite!”

Sanjay tried to stand but got tangled in his surroundings. “Shhhh . . . Sheila, my mother will hear you. She’ll kill me if she knows. Please—just please don’t tell her,” he implored, peering through the panther’s fuzzy pink legs.

“Tell her about us, Sanj, about us!” Ludmila begged, pulling the wishbone in opposite directions by herself. It snapped and she held up the larger portion. “Look, I won,” she announced victoriously.

“I don’t need anyone to tell me anything,” I seethed. “You know what, Sanjay—if you wanted out of the relationship, all you had to do was break up with me. But cheating on me? It’s humiliating. And you certainly didn’t have to make me feel bad about the meatballs.”

“Sheila, Sheila, I’m sorry, it’s just that my mother would have been so mad. She was dying for us to get married.”

“How could such a brave physician be so scared of his mother?” With that, I ran back up the stairs and stormed past Charlie, who was muttering something about “hegemony” and “disenfranchisement” to Uncle Bharat.

“Mom,” I whispered to her, “I can’t explain it right now, but I have to leave immediately.” She looked shocked. I squeezed her arm. “It’s all fine. Matthew and I are going to take the Buick. Someone can give you guys a ride home, right?” I smiled, trying to assure her that nobody was about to die. Before she could insist on leaving with me, I peeled Matthew away from a plate of cutlets in the kitchen, snatched the keys from my father’s jacket, and was out the door.

“What the hell is going on, Sheila?!” Matthew asked, confused.